


Benjamin Button

by Requiem (GoldenHavoc)



Series: October Dust [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Dialogue Heavy, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV First Person, Poetic style at times, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 00:18:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16315466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenHavoc/pseuds/Requiem
Summary: People love to adorn themselves with materials taken from the veins of earth, stolen and forged for the bashful honor to tinkle around their necks. Ivy can tell you a thing or two about it. The mines cry in her lap at night.But me, I’m a simple man with simple desires. Like Edward said; he's been complete before I settled by his side. Why try to blazon something which is complete already then? If I wanted a topaz, I'd carve it from his eyes. If I wanted a ruby, I'd cut the color from his lip. If I wanted a diamond, I'd open the cloak of his heart and melt its center – possibilities are endless just as his mind is. But I'm not fond of stones, I'm fond of flesh, of fire. And sometimes, when I'm sure he won't hear me, I might say I'm fond of him.This is mine. This is my torture.God help the ones who try take it away.





	Benjamin Button

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Whumptober prompts (which I'm way behind with but nyeh whatever *throws this at you*.
> 
> Prompt 14 : Torture

 

 

 

“You never spoil me“, he says.

And that’s the exact moment my headache starts to introduce itself.

I look up from my newspaper, mouth twitched and senses sharp even though the onerous walls of Arkham have tried to dull them often enough. Tuesday evening has ripped its violet claws into the clouds, and apparently the famous Riddler has chosen to keep me company after all.

What dreadful thing did I do (again) to deserve being ignored today, anyway? We've been with each other so long that sometimes I forget to ask.

I’d rather continue studying the latest article about Batman hunting down Black Mask’s coup but I know his expression too well, know the lines on his forehead. I could count them and guess the level of his disaffection. His statement still rings through my bones like a siren’s shriek.

“Excuse you?” I fold the newspaper and put it away for later, avoiding his eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest, cutting folds in bright material. He loathes the orange jumpsuit they gave us but I think it matches his hair nicely; as if he wore different shades of fall on his skin. Did you know the Scarecrow’s favourite season is fall? I do. Always did.

“Joker gave Harley a diamond bracelet today. She waved it in front of every face she could reach.”

Envy grows thick on thin lips. His voice soft all the same, sad as rain, treacherous like silk. He is no Ivy but he’s got some tricks up his sleeve there. Now and then his impressions seem even better than hers. I push my glasses up. 

“Oh, yes. After he beat her to a pulp two days ago. Her stamina is intriguing.” I grit my teeth at the mere image of her being painted blue and red. It’s been years since she was one of my students, still I can’t help but occasionally mourn what she has become. Nevertheless it was her decision and she claims it as such. What surprises me most is how Joker… accepted it. He tends to call her his girlfriend on his own, it’s become habit by now.

She might be his best joke of them all in the end, the one that never gets old for she’s young enough to cope. Harleen has always been a stubborn one. The young ones often are.

A trait which Edward is in no way inferior to, young or not. Lucky me.

“Don’t change the subject. He gave her a diamond bracelet.  _Diamond_.”

“Your point being?”

He tilts his head, annoyance clearly brooding in his eyes.

“It made me wonder. You never give me anything like that. And you had many chances to do so when we were in town.” Accusation drives an invisible thorn into my flesh. This discussion – or whatever you want to call it – bores me already.

“So? Jewels are Joker’s way to show he approves Harley’s constant survival. Or it was just one of his moods coming through. Do you want me to beat you, too? You could’ve asked like a normal person for once.” His mouth falls into a scar, graved in pout. I can’t deny that I like his pout.

“Don’t act like I’m stupid, Jonathan.”

“I don’t, Edward. You do.”

It makes him halt, forced to amend his strategy. I get to watch him one more time as he's lost in thought, biting his lower lip without noticing it. A few seconds slide into emptiness that way.

In moments like these, I want him on my skin just to push him off.

“…It’s the gesture,“ he chokes out at last, chin high. “Even a creature like Joker wants his girlfriend to look pretty sometimes. Beatings aside he also assures to make her feel appreciated.” I highly doubt this the real reason for his behavior and usually Edward does too, but I know better than to start a redundant argument about it.

But then again, aren't we in one? Hard to tell these days. I once asked him why there was spilled milk on the floor in the morning and he called it an argument. I pulled the blanket from him to cool the sweat forming on his forehead and he called it an argument. I could have kissed him and then swept off as he demanded more just to see the absent look wavering in his dilated pupils.

He’d call it an argument. He'd call me an imbecile. And he'd kiss me nonetheless, his fury hot on my tongue.

“So appreciation is what you want. How suprising,“ I deduce flatly. My eyes roam the posture of his body, slightly suppressed bewilderment and insecurity in the way he stands upright, the tension visible in his neck and spine. It can be mesmerizing what one conceives by simple observation. Either that or I’ve acquired the habit to read him like a book with such ease that I just don’t mind anymore.

Arkham feeds on him, too. Its hunger drains the color from his flesh, slows the swiftness in his replies, dulls his brilliant brain. He crumbles as we all do, jerking and withering like flowers. I decided to break out in three weeks, lulling the guards and doctors into a false sense of safety first… perhaps I should rearrange my plans. Two weeks will be fine as well; the stocks of my toxin hidden underground are impatiently waiting to be spread.

The bags under Edward’s eyes prove prominent in the bare lamplight, printed shadows on skin. Have they always been so deep? 

A past conversation echoes in my mind. I remember the day Dr. Leland argued with her colleagues. 

S _hould we use electroshock_ _therapy_ _on them again? Mingled with new medication?_

 _I don't think this to be necessary._  Leland had said, her resentment clear and steady. 

_The guard Zsasz attacked is still in hospital. What you deem ‚not necessary‘ could very well maintain the lives of our colleagues._

**_Zsasz is a special case, you know this._ ** _Besides, Nelson kicked him in the stomach when his colleagues were cuffing him. He’s not that innocent, either._

_Careful, Leland. One could almost think you’d have bonded with the insane._

_I simply don’t appreciate the thought of turning them into steaks!_

_Croc would like that._

_Shut it, Steve._

They didn't see me, my body glued to the wall, holding my breath and pulse rate slow, so deadly slow. 

_But. No. What if. Discuss later._

Hissing snakes on the carpet. Then steps. A feminine curse. Silence closing in.Electroshock therapy. Never been a fan of that. I wonder when they’ll truly revive this concept. I’m not eager to reside here once they do.

I sigh in mind. One week. One week is all I need to get us out. Usually Edward would have come up with a plan himself but he's tired. If I'd tell him this, the protest would be of furious kind but I’ve come to know him better than he knows himself. Even a mind like his needs ease, he's no machine. Though an on-off switch would be quite useful in the future to be honest.

“Don’t you feel appreciated enough when I’m with you?” I ask absently.

It’s the way he stutters in his movement that regains my attention. The way he licks his lips with a hint of nervousness, eager to figure out what to say next, which phrase hits harder though none does. I imagine his brain working behind this creased and smooth facade. What a brain. And what a troubled body, a troubled head to put it into with such carelessness.

It's one of the reasons I can't let him go. The teacher in me, he the astute yet wayward pupil who never learns a single page. Still it's not this contentious brilliance that keeps me. It's something underneath that layer... the glass shards peeking through.

“I do, but” His voice hitches, a pause filling the gap it makes. Suddenly he turns, averting my gaze. “Know what? Leave it. Nevermind.”

The air we breathe is cool now, the sun dipped in red depths, and for the first time I don't think about the article. It's unlike him to give up so easily. A frown creeps over my face like goosebumps.

“Edward.” I stand up, but he backs away like he’s been bitten by a cobra even though I'm hardly in reach. A phantom would be closer than me.

“It was a long day, don’t you think? I’m going to bed now.”

I glance to the clock on the wall ticking behind us. My frown deepens.

“It’s seven. Since when do you go to bed early?”

“It’s Arkham, I can sleep in my cell whenever I want to!” he snaps, turns and goes as quickly as he has come and disturbed my uneventful day. The door sheds a cry as he slams it shut, a guard following behind as he ’accompanies’ him along the halls.  A groan builds up in my insides like the last ting of an empty wine bottle.

I give myself ten minutes to collect my thoughts and prepare what I might need to say. Only then I follow him, every move deliberately laggard for I know how much he loathes the waiting.

I guess the newspaper lost the tiny piece of importance it had been holding soon as he stepped into the room like he stepped into my life. Uninvited, curious, conceited. 

And, most of all: Exceptionally demanding. Of course. 

If God has chosen this to be my final torture for all the deeds I’ve done, he’s done well enough.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As suspected, I find Edward in our cell, curled up on my bed, one hand tucked under his chin and facing the naked brick wall.

 _My_ bed. Of course. As if he wouldn’t claim it anytime he pleases to. I could kick him, he’d crawl up again and punch back. I tried to throw him off once. He was so offended he didn’t talk to me for three days, which is a record in his book.

Best three days of my life, really. Then I made the mistake to ask him to pass me the salt. The soup would have tasted horrible either way.

I grab the only chair in the small room, carry it to him, sit next to that bed with a mattress too thin and pillows too hard to drift into peaceful sleep. He prefers my chest over them, says my heartbeat calms him – pah, talking about _product quality_. I rest my elbows on my knees, hands clasped, eyes focused at his left ear. It slightly juts when brought into right perspective. I like that. He’s sensitive and, with caution, the imprint of my teeth will last there for hours. You should see Harvey’s disgusted visage when he takes a glimpse on that and Edward’s smug smile soon as he acknowledges. It is almost embarassing with how much pride he wears the marks I give.

They can say all they want, but Edward has a nice smile. A smile without snark or the defense it portrays. He once let me know he’d show it more often since I’m here. Just another method of trying to mess with my head, obviously, not that I believe him. But I like this smile. It’s worth much – as much as the definition of worth concerns me.

“You were right,“ I say, my words echoing in the silence. “I never thought about giving you jewels or other ornaments to hang yourself with, though your green suits resemble a christmas tree quite well.” He gives me nothing, no gasp, no growl, the bold brat he is. I take a deep breath. “But you’re wrong if you think I wouldn’t appreciate you.”

„Then why don’t you show it?”

Ah, it can speak. The way he does makes me picture his lips pressed together, curved inside yet craving for an answer. I take my time to cherish his need for this. His need for me.

It’s always been strange to think of it like that, obnoxious to the darker parts of my soul. We’re here, just like we have been years ago. We have not killed each other though we certainly tried. We agreed on definitions holding more than inmates sharing a cell. We conformed to standards and conditions we had no words for back then, and refuse to have now.

And then we agreed on being a two instead of one; a we instead of I. Chosen of all people, all _rogues_ terrorizing Gotham and running over her pumping veins clamped between concrete and blood. How trite it must have seemed to everybody else.

After all this time, it’s the 12th November and he wants appreciation by me. As if my opinion was worth more than the opinion of others even though he cherishes his own opinion most. I don't know why. I just know that every time I think of escape he is an immovable component I count on and the stubborn part in me refuses to do anything about it.

When did I ever count on someone before? The toxin must have altered my brain function. It doesn’t work like it used to.

I could go and abandon this cell, this asylum with joy, damn Edward to his own thoughts and qualms gnawing at him. I know people who’d do that without batting an eyelash. Most of them have never even set foot into Arkham. But I won’t. It is an option, tempting, yes. I won’t. I’m in too deep, so I talk instead. I keep trying.

I know this might seem strange, crazy even. But well, we _are_ in an asylum, so this seems bound to occur.

“Maybe it’s because I never thought I’d ever have something as valuable as you,” I say.

How thoughtful this sounds while it leaves my sluggish mouth. A pause between us, meek as a mouse hiding in the walls biting on cables. A twitch tells everything and more. I have his attention.

“I’m no man of good look or expensive taste,“ I continue slowly, leaning back in the chair. “The high-life praised by opulence was not for me. But I had my chemicals, I had my books, I even had Scarecrow, and it seemed to be what someone like me should expect from this life. And now, there is you. You’re the part I never asked for, and yet I despise the thought of cutting you out again. It would break more than it would mend. I guess I have to keep you.“

“Sounds like you hate me,” he mutters. I let it slip. Why did I have to choose a man-child of all people to be stuck with? Oh wait, right, it wasn’t me. He chose first, it’s his fault. Not that this comforts me.

“If you really thought that, you wouldn’t allow me to speak to you this way, nor would you allow me to be near you. It’s more complicated than that.” 

“Always is.”

And there’s a tone to that I despise. A tone I’ve heard often. The bitterness wrapped around his words so close to my own.

My fingers tighten, short nails digging scars into skin. Not that I care, I have plenty. He gives them names of greek warriors while he traces them at night, as soon as he assumes that I'm too weary to care. I never am and how could I be? He’s acting out the Iliad on my back. It would be cruel to forbid a battered child such simple pleasures. Yet again, I’ve been known to be cruel by many.

 _Stay calm, Jonathan. Stay calm. It’s the bitterness angering you, not the man who holds it. It’s the sound of shields building._ _It only angers you because you want to be within these shields, trying to be one of them. A shield shielding shields._

_You try so hard sometimes, it drives you mad._

“Tell me, how can you wish so dearly to be _be put on display_ like that?“ The darkness of my voice makes him look over his shoulder, our eyes meeting for the first time. A spark of worry in blue, a small gulp making his Adam's apple bob up. The taste of disaster sparks on my tongue and he tastes it, too. He knows me. God, he knows me. I've become predictable. I’m in far too deep.

“Jon. Are you alright?“ I'm not, but that's fine. I've never been alright to begin with. My fingers loosen their grip, but the crescents in my flesh remain. He sees them, his eyes widening. 

“I know you love the idea of being held and praised like a trophy. You love trophies yourself. But I see no sense in dimming your shine by mere symbols of cheapened glamour nor to represent you as one. I’ll try to give you everything you demand for, everything you could possibly need, but not that. Not because I don’t appreciate you, because I  **do**. I won’t let your worth be measured by stones and pearls. Just think about your wit. Your survival. Who could buy something as sumptuous as that? Who could buy _you_? The very idea disgusts me.”

He's quiet at that. He sits up, cross-legged, facing me with his head held high, one hand on his knee, the other cupping the right half of his face. I can't find what conquers his gaze this time. Is he pleased? Ashamed? Angered? Does he think me a fool? Did I say too much? Should I've said nothing at all... His impression slips through my fingers like sand. He runs his own through his hair, single strands of auburn falling right back into his forehead as the only decoration he needs. I'd like to tell him, but then I don't know how, my tongue is chained to my palate. He looks at me then, his forefinger tapping his bottom lip in musing manner.

I should kill him as he mocks me with wait, I really should. But often temptation is all we allow. Keeping ourselves from acting out is what differs us from animals.

But we are caged like them one way or another. Captured and crammed in our own minds.

“What a horrible poet you are,“ he says. Smiles. Not the usual smile, but it carries a certain fondness. It grows shakier as I watch, a fogged mirror of bottled-up emotion. “I’m sure you’d have made Kafka cry.”

“Kafka had enough problems to begin with.“

“So do we. So do I.“ He sighs while he massages the bridge of his nose. He's not pleased, looks taken aback. I wait for the inevitable.

Incredulous bursts of coughed up laughter follow then, spill like waves clutching on rock. I sit and watch. I always watch.

“Great. Look what you’ve done – I'm not mad anymore. Youtookthat from me. Discarded my wrath.”

 _What will you discard next? What else will you take from me? And will I_ ** _let_** _you take it?_ Thequestions are circling in the depths of his dark pupils. Incredulous. Adrift.

He can't stop laughing. How dare I make him laugh like that. Here, the walls have more ears than I. They'll note down and use. So do I, but with docile intention. Or is this a lie I keep telling myself, one of many? Sometimes I don't know who'd do worse to him – the guards, the inmates or Scarecrow.

…No. I only pretend not to know.

I bend forward. My hand catches his arm, gray nails on orange. He's trembling from the laughter that vanished to a hiccup too fast, gasps for air like a man who’s just heard the best joke of his life and he's shaken by it. It is an image I want to hold on to, an image I want to forget and an image my alter ego wants to destroy. It beholds the ruin he is, marks me as its keeper and the one who will knock it down when the end is near. This is something I chose, not he. And hidden inside our truce he hates me for it, I can tell. Maybe he'll hate me someday, too. I can't say how I would handle that. I knew it earlier, but now there's no answer to satisfy me. Every solution I think of is crinkled paper to him, not even clean enough to write his conundrums on.

Everything has become vague these days. And he could never stand vague.

“I’m sorry I’ve ruined your plans for the evening,” I say, the mild haze of rage still swirling in my veins but ebbing, fading like thunder from afar.

“You better be,” he murmurs, swallowing his dearly claimed chunks of oxygen. My touch doesn't seem to bother him. His smile turns into a wolf's grin, eyes sheepish yet tainted. I fear his moods are his remedy and my unbalanced riddle to solve for the rest of my life.

“You should make up for that.“ I tilt my head. Well, at least he stopped laughing.

“What do you have in mind?“  _Many, many things, Jon._

“Many, many things, Jon. As usual. But first, tell me about how Batman kicked Sionis’ ass. I’m thrilled to hear details.“

„You didn’t let me finish the article.“

“Think of something! I’m sure you’ll come up with a far more colorful version.“

“It would be easier to go and get the newspaper.“

His hand covers mine. Skin soft without the leather of his gloves, too gentle for a man his age and reputation. Bolton took his last pair yesterday. I don't mind too much – which doesn't mean he won't get an overdose later. I remember these things. 

With his free hand, Edward pats the blanket to his right. “Easy has never been my favourite option. Come to me. Make me afraid.“ He plays the words on his tongue like they mean nothing. I shake my head in disbelief.

“And you said I don’t spoil you.“

“You don’t.”

His voice is calm again, as if nothing had happened, yet how his fingers curl around mine gives him away. _Stay._ Forget the newspaper then.

I stand up to sit myself down by his side on that awful bedstead. He lets go of my hand and seizes my arm, his chin propped on the peaked roof of my shoulder. I settle against the wall and he follows, our legs tucked up – a choreography of habit. The upper bed stands heavy above our heads; I'm almost too tall to fit into the gap. I put an arm around him, my fingers finding their familiar way into his hair. Closing my eyes, I lean in, inhaling his scent. Clean sweat, chalk and the distinct smell of the soap he used this morning. His nose nudges against my stubble, teasing me for its existence. They don't let us have sharp objects here, and we stayed longer than we intended to. He's warm, almost blazing while my own temperature runs cold, cutting cracks into my bones.

We're a strange pair.

“I just liked the notion that everyone could see I belong to someone,“ he whispers, tugging at my collar. “It’s an endearing thought, don’t you agree?“

“You’re not a vase, Edward. Humans don’t belong to other humans.“

“Then you don't belong to me either? What a shame. You're valuable.” He looks up to me, lashes lowering, a sour-sweet expression on his face. “Perhaps I should ask Harvey what he thinks about ownership in these delicate affairs. He wrote his very own paragraph about the right of ownership from what I remember.“

A growl runs up my throat. I smash it between my teeth before the air can catch it. He laughs his small laugh, gloats at my resentment. I guess children always laugh at the fire before they burn. But so do grown men at their enemies before they're sent to war. None of them laughs afterwards. But maybe _he_ still would. Just to spite them. To prove them wrong.

“A joke, Jon. A joke.“ 

„You're not good at making jokes“, I say, pulling on a few strands of hair at the back of his head. The amused glint in his eyes doesn’t vanish.

“You're jealous.“ As if I could be jealous at someone who'll literally change his sexuality by the flip of a coin. Ah, this awful delight on his features. I pull tighter. He grins wider. How often have we played this game? 

“You're childish.“  His lips thin out.

“Sometimes, though I prefer _agile_. Does it bother you much?“

„It’s part of your questionable charm, I suppose.“

“Hm.“ He furrows a brow. I lift my hand and smooth it back down with my thumb.

“It is. It’s like experiencing the childhood I should have had in the first place.“

„I can’t even imagine you as a kid. The concept, yes, but no picture... I've never seen any photos.“

“I’ve never shown you any.“ Edward tilts his head.

„Why not?“

“There are none.“

To be honest, I'm not too sure about that. I haven't visited great granny's mansion for decades nor do I intend to. The building must be a corpse by now, a decor of rotten wallpapers and hollowed wood. Somewhere inside its bowels might scatter photos of her and me in our best clothes, just as we're about to go to mass. I recall her proud foothold and the small suit itching and the fabric of my dress shirt clinging to the damp skin in my neck when the southern sun had reached its peak. I disdain these memories. And I disdain the pictures preserving the lies I was born into. They’ve captured the weakness I have tried to overcome all my life.

“Really? Not even one?“ His voice pulls me back from the edge and I blink in denial. I turn up my gaze and look right into the dark shade of blue I've come to recognize amongst every other.I don't like to lie to this blue. I cup his cheek, and his eyes close briefly in surprise.

“Not a single one“, I say as they flutter open again. “You wouldn't have cherished them anyway. I was an average-looking boy.“

“I don't believe you're the one to judge that.“ A slow dance of nails winds down my shoulder. Most of our movements are akin to a dance these days. And why not? He feels safe in routine. “I’ll think of you as Benjamin Button then; without the tragic side-effects.“ He considers his last statement, squinting his eyes. When he leans into my touch, I can feel the hard skull hidden beneath his burning skin. “Even if,.. we are weird to those people, anyway. How would reversed aging change that?“

“Why else should we be in Arkham if not for being weird?“

He shrugs, his weight shifting. Words and lips in the crook of my neck. My hand rests on his lower back, my fingers tapping the tune of Für Elise. Beethoven had his time and he used it gracefully. I can respect that.

“Annoying the bat?“

“What about fashion sense?“

“Oh _please,_  we had that already. We both know who the real sinner is here.  _My_ mask leaves room for the aesthetic.“

“Don’t get me started on your aesthetics.”

“Want me to shut up? Make me.”

“Are you twelve?”

“Compared to you, Doctor, I’m a horny teenager.“ I sigh as the memories come knocking.

“I hated being a teenager. It was so dull.“

“Should've kept me around then.“ He cocks his head, his eyes crinkling, the light in them brighter than the cheap bulb above our heads. And yet it can’t hide the terror of past years they caused, the wound it left. “I hated it, too“, he adds all too merrily. No doubt in that. Für Elise switches to Chopin's Prelude. He recognizes the change of forte and hums.

“No.4.“

I reply by intensifying the pressure on his skin. He should know best; Chopin is his favourite composer. And he looks so pleased I can barely hold his gaze.

He’s good at this. Reaction. Conversation. Communication in general, may it be of verbal or physical kind. Able to hide himself for the sake of feeling powerful or to keep the illusion of control. It’s difficult to be in control when he’s with me and he knows that. We both do. Still he stays and makes himself a home in long abandoned places.

He’s a nuisance at best.

I keep telling myself that ever since we met. I'm his pastime, his distraction, his wall to climb on. One day he will leave like they all do and I’ll watch and inside me, something small that has been broken from the start will shatter. But that doesn’t mean that I want him to leave. Not yet. I can take another break.

_Maybe I should ask Harvey what he thinks about that._

**_He won't talk much after I cut his tongue in quarters, will he?_ **

My nails scrape across a spot where he still sports the bruised bite I gave him two days ago. He chuckles, a small, muffled sound, so revealing in its spontaneity. It's no coincidence. He knows I've memorized every inch, basks in this knowledge. His lips find mine before I find his. They’re soft, softer than mine.

“Jesus, I didn't come here to throw up that shit they called dinner.“

Edward groans as he pulls away, greeting the intruder with scorching eyes. His whole body goes rigid under my touch once recognition sets in.

“Fuck off, Hank,“ he snarls. I look to the cell entrance, mildly annoyed.

A man leans against the doorframe. Thewed body, coarse features, shaved head. A blackish-white tattoo claims his forearm. One of Penguin's goons then. A long scar adorns the left side of his face. I might have seen him before, but he didn’t leave a permanent impression on me. Few do.

“I’m afraid you will be the ones fucking when I'm gone,“ he retorts drily, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He bows forward and I can see the ashen skin stretched over his skull. Black eyes lie in famished caves of flesh. He looks like he hasn't slept for days.

Interesting. Whoever this creature is has trouble buried beneath its temples. Edward, on the other hand, is less keen to analyse 'Hank' any further. He doesn't let himself get provoked that fast, but Arkham leaves everyone's nerves raw. His fingers wedge into my chest but his voice is as composed as ever.

“Riddle me this – what will be black and blue all over if it won't move its unpleasant carcass right now?“

Hank grins. A piggish grin, noted for later use.

 _“_ Your face once my fist has kissed it. _“_

Edward jerks forward. I catch him by his shoulder before he can jump off the bed and probably get his derriére kicked. He is not that easy to knock down but his power reserves are nearly depleted. Any broken bones and concussions would complicate my escape plan to a great extent, not to mention his constant complains. He wriggles under my hold.

“Believe me, you won't touch a single _SPOT_ o-“

“Save your rage, Edward.“ My attention wavers at the intruder. “What business brings you to our cozy domain, messenger?“

Hank huffs. His whole composure boils in boredom. This might not be the first time he's been sent to collect or give information. He doesn't seem too smart as well since he should have learned some manners by now. Edward and I are not as  _popular_  as Joker, but our names are well-known. And if people have a grain of sense in their body they shudder at them.

“Mr. Cobblepot says you have a laboratory in here to mix your toxin. He wants some. Lots of it, actually.“ Of course he does. Though I doubt he'll use it for his own businesses. There's enough fear sweating through black markets and bank accounts. Maybe he needs it for a buyer with more specific tastes.

“And he sent you to tell us? You seem quite disposable.“

„Maybe Oswald sent him hoping we'd get rid of him eventually. He's always been exaggeratedly lethargic when it comes to dealing with garbage,“ Edward adds with a scornful stare. Hank scowls.

“No one said anything 'bout you, freak. I'm here for Crane.“

Edward flinches under my hand. The shade of embarrassment creeps up his neck like a woken sun. I raise a brow. No matter how dumb, it's uncommon for henchmen to act openly aggressive towards people who are far above their position. I smell the stench of history between them. He has no history with me... yet.

We’ll give it a try.

“I wouldn't be too rude if I were you, Hank. As I recall, you've told Dr. Stevens about a certain nightmare that pestered you the week before. I think it was about your teeth falling out?“

Surprise hits his dull face like a stone. I can see the minute the broad man's confidence shrivels down to a puddle. Black eyes widen, grin falling to a crack. Hands find their home in fists. A broken, jaded home I suppose but no excuse to act brutish anyway. We all have ourshareof fate.

“Wh – how do you know? They told me it was a private session!“

Edward's mild astonishment lingers on me like gauze but I'll answer later, putting stress into my touch. My focus stays on Hank. People hate being stared at too long, it makes them feel challenged, cornered. I want him to feel more than cornered. Shedding a sigh, my lids fall and eyes turn to iridescent slits in the lampshade.

“You see, a little dose of fear can turn nightmares into reality in an instant. As your boss should have told you I'm equipped with the needed devices to do just so. Do you wish to wake up and choke on your own canines, Hank? I could set up our session for tomorrow night. Don't worry; I’d take my time with you.“

Hank stares. His Adam's apple bobs as he gulps down the fear attempting to corrupt his tongue and corrupt it does. Humans are so predictable when scared, thinking _thinking_ about a way out while stumbling in the dark and finding nothing but shards of past to cut on. After seconds of hesitation, he takes a step back throwing his hands clumsily in the air like someone had pointed a gun at him and, in the metaphorical sense, Ido. I wished my scythe was in reach. It'd paint these walls in more expressive patterns than the staff has to offer and Edward holds a penchant for personal decoration anyway. Though I doubt the guards would share our particular taste in embellishment. Everyone's a critic these days.

“Geez, it was just a joke. Do what you want.“ The tiny drop of sweat plastering his temple as he licks his lower lip fools the aggravation of his words. He's scared and he's angry for letting himself be scared, this hulk of flesh and boobery. Wrath is the refuge of the weak, blatantly natural in its evocation. I’ve seen it in every trembling form, I've seen it in my bullies' eye. Not that I'd be immune to it, but I do cherish the self-control I've built through the years. It allows me to plan my actions in advance. As I plan my vengeance.

“With pleasure we will,“ I say evenly. “Tell Oswald I'll prepare a few liters and contact him soon as I've fled this hideous place.“ A sideglance to Edward who still ogles me with suspicion. “with my better half. Now leave.“

He does leave. Maybe he tries to slow his step and keeps his composure while he goes, but the pinch of shock quickens his movements, a hare off to find its hole. I smile at that.

“Better half, huh?“

Smile turns to wound when nails cut into my chest. I glance up, frost waiting in front of me. Edward clicks his tongue. “I can't remember to have ever been _incomplete_ in the first place. Can you, Jonathan?“ No effect on my part, the dangerous edge in his words not alien to me. I move, the burn my faithful companion.

“Usually one deems it a compliment to be part of something bigger than oneself, Edward.“

“You took me aside like some _amateur,_ “ he hisses in response. I didn't know his nails to be _this_ sharp. I forgot his eagerness to misinterpret too. I grow heedless in time.

“I defend–“

“You didn't have to defend me! I can fend for myself - I don't need _you_ to fight my battles.“

The pressure leaves as he tries to rush out of my embrace, but I hold tight. I'm in no mood to go after him a second time today, hell forbid it turns into habit. His fist comes back, wedges in cloth pulling at my collar. He'd like to punch me, the strain is there, his eyes clear and cold. Only few things are more fragile than his pride.

Lesser individuals would have felt the sting of the hidden syringe I carry in my pocket long ago, yet the opportunities to have free route to my lab are rare and I won't waste a single ounce of toxin for a farce. With the care of a parent I drape my hand over his, wrapping fingers around his wrist till my thumb brushes his pulse in warning. High rate, as expected. He gets worked up too fast, it will be his grave one day. His breath flees in my direction, halts at the feeling convulsing his mind.

“First, if you lash out I will make sure you'll be unconscious till noon. Secondly, I'm highly aware how capable you are, I've seen the things you do; I wouldn't choose an amateur to be my partner. Thirdly, I didn't defend you. I defended _us_ from this cretin“, I say, regardless of his halfhearted fidgeting. Sometimes he needs illusion, not reality. I prefer to give him both at chosen times. “The day simple thugs treat us like trash without fearing consequence is the day we're in need to retire from this life.“

He stills, if only a moment. His face shows he’s not too pleased with my answer yet has enough sense left not to question it. Truth is rarely a matter of discussion between us. I pull him closer. I don't care that he turns his head away from me, it's one of his gimmicks when he's flustered. My voice leans on his cheek. I want him to listen so he will.

These days, he's mine. I won’t raise no rebels tonight.

“How did you know his name anyway, hm? Have you lowered your standards so much in this house that you befriend hooligans while Leland pokes my brain?“

I practically feel his expression harden further. He backs away, parting from my hand but not my position. On bended knee he wraps his arms around himself, a foot on the floor to keep himself balanced.

“You of all should know I'd never choose such company myself. I briefly encountered him when I met Oswald for an information exchange. He was one of his bodyguards lurking around the place. Just as I was about to leave we had a small... disagreement.“

He's shaking lightly at the word. Disgust? I blink, recalling that night. He came home with a grimace though the trade had gone well. I had wondered but not asked further. I probably should have.

“What substance had this disagreement?“ He snorts. Fingers crinkle the jumpsuit.

“Nothing special. He asked me if I was available sexually.“

Oh.

“How trite of him. But so were others. Your reply?“ He stays silent, pondering. Then, he points at his head.

“My cane has always prone to serve as unmistakable response in cases as these. Who do you think he owes his scar to?“

“Would explain his vivid hostility.“

“He looks better with it. Not that he'd have been handsome in the first place.“ He pauses. “...Are you mad?“

My smile is forced – it often is. “No. Not at you.“

“But your face. I know that face.“

“A scandal if you didn't.“

“You think him as new guinea pig in store.“

I sigh, leaning my head back. The damn brick wall nauseates me more than ever. I'm able to rest in a field of hay and stacks of corn, but what I'd give to have cushions now. Edward's life-style coddles me.

“When Santa Claus keeps a list for the naughty ones, why can't I? There’s even a movie about it, ’Nightmore Before Christmas’ or so it’s called. Would you mind an early present?“ Glee washesover him like dust in response. Always a pleasure to catch a glimpse at the darker parts of his nature. It brings out the best in him.

“Not at all. Christmas is coming soon. I doubt he'll last long though. He doesn't heal well.“ His gaze stays on me. “Now, how have you known about his dream? Tell me, I’m curious.“

“The symbolism of teeth falling out is common in such institutions, Edward. It usually masks the fear of social or personal deprivation.“

“You took a guess?“

“He looked sick and wasted. Also most of the mentally harmless cases are given to Stevens to keep her from Harleen’s fate.“ A derision to always cling onto Arkham like mold. I hope it to be swallowed by it soon enough. Edward purses his lips.

“I wouldn't call Hank harmless.“

“Still you wouldn't put him on the same level as us,“ I point out. He grimaces.

“Of course not! We're beyond compare… Well, I am.“ I roll my eyes.

“Your look on society with you on the higher shelf is shockingly blatant as usual.“

He pretends to overhear that. As usual. Instead, he sighs, leaning his head on my shoulder.

“You know, sometimes I DO feel like we're in highschool,“ he murmurs. “Tasteless food, tasteless clothes,“ He sends a hard glance to the spot where infamous Hank stood. “and all those inferior brutes surrounding us. I can _feel_ my brain shrinking when they look at me.“ I offer a dry chuckle.

„They wouldn't look at you if you weren't that conspicious.“

“I can't help my infatuating aura.“

“Sure.“ Edward‘s eyes narrow.

“Do I sense an ounce of sarcasm in your voice?“

“Wouldn't dare.“ The creases around his eyes deepen. They‘re not prominent yet – just there, a soft reminder of time. They merely highlight his charm.

“I have the slightest fear that's not quite true.“

“I know all your major fears and this isn‘t one of them.“ I earn a slap on my arm for my flawless commentary.

“And you have the nerve to call _me_ the smartass in the relationship“, Edward says, grinning. I return it as best as I can. Grins never were my forte to begin with, he knows that. I reach out and graze the contour of his cheekbone with my knuckles, and pause.

“Maybe you’re right. I might’ve liked being a teenager if I had you to keep me company.“ He lights up like a beacon. Sometimes, he’s far too easy to please. It would have worried me, had he been all alone in the facility. We aren’t caught often these days, but every time we do, the fine line between respect and predator-prey system shifts more, see Hank. It’s that new century haunting us. The age.

“I’m sure you'd have! I've never been less than exceptional,“ he says, leaning towards my touch. I keep quiet for once just to look at him in the sparse light. We remain like this for a while as content as our kind’s allowed to be. It’s more than enough. Sometimes, it’s nearly unbearable to maintain. For this alone, times as these should be cherished.

“So, didn't you want to know about Sionis?“ I ask eventually. He blinks. Maybe I was too quick to change the theme.

“I did. But then we got“, He quickly peers to the cell‘s entrance as if he‘s expecting someone to stand there and leer at us. No one is, we‘re alone with ourselves and each other. I like it best this way. “distracted,“ he adds with little hesitation. I nod.

“Yes. Won‘t happen again.“

“Not today.“ Looking back at me, there’s an emotion hidden in his slightly widening pupils, one he rarely shows. “We‘ll get out soon, right?“

Usually he’s the one to prefer answering such questions, being the Riddler and all. The fact he’s asking me tells more than I like to admit. No question he utters should ever be answered by a no, except he wants it to.

“Soon,“ I promise, and pull him closer. “Soon.“

I tell him of the heist gone wrong then. He listens, eyes chained to my tongue, hands draped over his lap, his pulse throbbing so close to mine I could easily end it.Afterwards, he wraps around me and dozes off. I hold him as the night falls outside, the shadows weaving a blanket upon our shape. His calm breaths mark a pleasant echo in the dark.

People love to adorn themselves with materials taken from the veins of earth, stolen and forged for the bashful honor to tinkle around their necks. Ivy can tell you a thing or two about it. The mines cry in her lap at night.

But me, I’m a simple man with simple desires. Like Edward said; he's been complete before I settled by his side. Why try to blazon something which is complete already then? If I wanted a topaz, I'd carve it from his eyes. If I wanted a ruby, I'd cut the color from his lip. If I wanted a diamond, I'd open the cloak of his heart and melt its center – possibilities are endless just as his mind is. But I'm not fond of stones, I'm fond of flesh, of fire. And sometimes, when I'm sure he won't hear me, I might say I'm fond of him.

“This is mine,” I whisper, at 3 am in the dead of night as my hand hovers over the roots of his heart, hidden under bones and sinews and flesh. How I envy them to be nearer than me. He laughs quietly into my ear, a warm breeze of breath on my skin.

“This old thing? You should take my brain instead. It has less damage,” Edward chides drowsily. He’s a light sleeper these days, I forgot. His voice proves rich and burdened, aware I can still see the faint smile curling on his mouth. My fingers sweep across his arm in slow, wavy lines.

“It’s the damage that made it mine to begin with.” He makes a scornful sound, then eyes shut in silence again, his body relaxing, giving out. I feel myself drift further into the night and the truth I spilled between us like blood.

It’s a fact, still one of tragic nature. If we wouldn’t be who we are, we’d probably never met. We’d never share this cell or this bed.

I miss our bed, though. Our apartement. He sleeps better with soft pillows, not clothed stones as they have here. I try to sleep too, his weight on my chest the only component to keep me on earth and Scarecrow mumbling in the back of my head. As ever, he tells me of all the torture I could pour over the pulse beating under my hands, the delicious screams I could tear from him while I rip his vocal cords to shreds. My fingers lay down, search for his hand. He intertwines with mine, tight, no word asked, no question needed now.

My pulse stutters slightly, his nose nuzzling against the edge of my chin in mocking, playful manner. The vague hint of his worry tastes like autumn leaves.

There’s no need. Tonight is a safe night. Sooner or later, Scarecrow sits down to wait, but I sense his anger in my veins. He wants to get out, too. He doesn’t care for gems either, but he’s taken a tremendous liking to Edward’s whines, and wonders when he’ll be in charge to harvest them.

So I hold firm and breathe deep knowing he’ll come and knock next time the minute Arkham is nothing but a faint silhouette in our backs as we head to Gotham.

Knowing my door will be open.

 _Soon_.

**Soon.**


End file.
